


Just a Body

by Hammocker



Series: I Saw You [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Corruption, Desensitization to Murder, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Gore, M/M, Murder, Surgery, Surgery Upon a Conscious Subject, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Victor's Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6421153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hammocker/pseuds/Hammocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward needed to learn how to harness his gift. Victor had always believed that the best way to learn is by experience. The only way to realize that a living body was still just a body was to cut into one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Body

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know I could write things like this. I didn't know I wanted to write things like this ever. You kinda have to write a few things like this when you're dealing with Zsasz. Sick bastard. I love him.
> 
> Fair warning, if the tags aren't clear as it is, this fic contains graphic depictions of impromptu, unnecessary surgery performed on a conscious person. It's not performed on either of our main characters, but if that sort of thing makes you squeamish anyway, this is when you want to go.

A musky scent permeated Edward’s nostrils. It wasn’t a welcome, dusty odor like that of his home, rather it was dreary and reeked of death. It didn’t help that the room was some sort of basement, concrete walls, stone floors covered in a layer of dirt, a dying incandescent light bulb up above. Worst of all, it was horribly stuffy. In the ten or so minutes since Victor had led him down to the place, Edward had sweated more than he had in months. Whether it was just the humidity or his nerves was a toss-up that he didn’t want to ponder.

Before him was a man laid out on an adjustable plateau and a table. The man was strapped down at his middle and blindfolded; conscious, but pacified. He seemed more sullen than afraid. Resigned to his position. 

“Go on,” Victor urged, standing just behind him. “Do what feels right.”

“It doesn’t feel right, any of this.”

“It’s only because you’re so new.”

A hand on his back urged him towards the man and Edward complied.

“You know bodies. Flesh,” Victor muttered as they grew closer and closer. “Think about cutting into it. Puncturing it. The blood running out of a living thing, the muscle separating at your will. A life in your hands.”

Edward swallowed thickly. His heart was pounding and his thoughts were racing too fast for him to build any kind of train of thought. The only things in his mind were raw emotion. Terror. Anxiety. Elation.

“Take it slow. You’ll know what feels right.”

Edward stared from the man down to the table. It held a tray full of blades, saws, syringes, sharp tools that Edward didn’t even recognize. It was a greater selection than that of the GCPD and even his personal collection. Better kept too. He was expected to draw blood, certainly, but he could have turned the body before him inside out if he wanted to. He never had worked on anything this fresh, this- still breathing. He should have wretched at the thought, but rather a tentative smile tugged at his lips.

He picked up a kind of scalpel, larger and nastier than anything Edward was ever allowed to use. Edward touched a finger to the blade and pulled away as it nipped him. He wasn’t bleeding, but any poor soul he used it on would. The things he could do, the power he held. A jolt of excitement ran up from his belly to his chest.

No use wasting any more time. Do what’s natural, Victor had said. He lunged forward and drove the scalpel into the man’s belly. The flesh gave way as easily as Edward had expected, going through a good two inches of skin.

What he didn’t expect was the pained shriek that rang through the air.

Edward was taken aback by the sound. From someone so unresponsive, he hadn’t expected any screaming. He flinched back and tore the scalpel out, opening up a well of blood in the process. The screaming didn’t stop and Edward frantically turned to Victor.

“Is he supposed to-?”

“Yes,” Victor said with a nod. “Something you need to get used to. He won’t resist.”

The noise dulled to a choked sob as he spoke.

Edward regarded his subject once more. He didn’t know this man. No more than he knew anyone he’d ever worked on. They were only dead people, cold flesh. Bodies. It was just a body.

That thought strong in his mind, Edward used his free hand to grip at the subject’s right wrist. He slipped the blade into a layer of flesh and tissue just below the shoulder with practiced ease. Once again, he heard a scream, but it didn’t deter him this time. He carefully sliced down the arm, exposing the muscles and letting blood flow out.

With a corpse, there was typically minimal to no fluid flow by the time Edward got to dissect it. It was quite astounding, really, just how much warm blood a single living limb held. How much oxygen the subject was pulling in and how much of it was dripping right back out onto his skin. The cut was too wide and too deep for the body to repair itself effectively. Infection would spread quickly considering the unsanitized scalpel, and blood loss would only exacerbate its effects. He had to go further before that happened.

Edward would have used graspers or at least worn a glove normally, but feeling his work against his bare hand was too tempting. He pressed his index finger into the lower arm, pushing the gash open farther. Around all the broken blood vessels and intravenous fluids, he could see straight to the musculature, wrapping around the radius and the ulna within. He worked a thumb in next to the finger and stretched the skin as far out as it would go. Screams and cries of agony echoed in his ears, but he couldn’t stop staring. The muscles were a more vibrant color than he was used to seeing. And the connective tissues still stuck to the skin were a rich orange, smooth and rounded and closely clumped together, very unlike the dried up yellow globes of fat he was used to seeing on corpses. He’d often been told that people were the most beautiful on the inside; he was sure it was true then.

It would have been nice to see the bones properly, he decided. He pulled his fingers out of the lower arm and shifted so he could spread the upper arm open. The fat was a thicker layer there, but the muscle poked through nonetheless. He drifted up towards the shoulder, pressed the flesh open, and stuck the scalpel between the bone and the attached muscle.

The wailing was getting obnoxious, Edward had to say. He would have thought his subject would have passed out by now, but no, he seemed determined to stay awake.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, driving the scalpel farther in towards its joint.

He either wasn’t heard or he was ignored. The screaming only increased in decibels and his blade only cut deeper in.

“God, would you just shut up for a second?!” he barked, shoving the scalpel through a particularly tough tendon.

Miraculously, the noise did stop. The arm went limp. All there was was sniveling and heavy breathing. Edward could live with that.

He peeled some of the muscle away from the bone and observed it for a moment. If there was one thing that wasn’t too different, it was the exposed humerus. The only difference was the excessive fluid covering it. He tapped the rigid tissue. Solid as it was on a corpse. The limb would die soon, as would its owner if Edward kept going as he was. And God did he want to.

Edward’s eyes drifted to the subject’s belly, still bleeding a good bit from being stabbed earlier. The skin was trying to heal though. So resilient, human skin. It wouldn’t be healing for long.

Edward placed the used blade back on the table and selected something a bit larger. From the looks of it, there wouldn’t be much fat to go through, but muscle might be an issue. It wasn’t like he had to sew it back on afterward anyway.

He’d never performed a real surgery before, but Edward had seen them done and read his fair share about various procedures. No need to be precise, he supposed. Leaning over, he pressed the new blade into the flesh just at the base of the subject’s ribcage and carved down towards the abdomen. The screaming was back, hoarse and muted. Just white noise. He kept cutting until he had a slightly uneven square cut. With that done, he peeled back the flesh. The fat deposits were a bit thicker. He reached a thumb beneath the pulled flesh and pressed down upon it. The smooth tissue deformed at his will, but refused to be pushed aside or scraped off of the flesh.

One layer down, one to go. With the skin out of the way, he just had a thin layer of muscle to cut into. The blade easily cut down the middle of the neglected abdominal muscles and from there they practically folded back. Finally, the major internal organs were exposed. Stomach, liver, intestines, all entirely functional, albeit on hold thanks to stress. A wet, reflective sheen covered them, shining dully in the dim basement. Such a shame that so many people’s organs never saw the light of day. His attention was drawn to the smooth, rubbery tissue of the stomach. He wondered when the subject had eaten last, if he’d find anything of note in the stomach. Or if he’d been treating his liver properly. Maybe Edward would have to extend the opening a little. Crack the rips and get a look at a beating human heart.

Edward stuck the scalpel into the subject’s stomach when the screaming abruptly stopped.

Everything was quiet lest a deep _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_ that grew slower and slower with every passing second. He thought it was his own heart for a moment. He hadn’t thought it had been beating so hard. In fact, he knew it hadn’t been. No, it wasn’t his heart, it was the heart within the body he’d just cut into, slowly revving down like the fan of an overworked machine.

He stared from the open cavity in the man’s middle to his limp, sliced up arm. It was a person’s mutilated body. Mutilated by him. His blood on Edward’s clothes, his hands. And he was still alive. Lungs contracting and inflating within the ribs, shallower and shallower every time. He was dying. Dying after so many long minutes of pain. And the smell coming off of him, the pungent, overwhelming scent of fresh blood... The scalpel dropped from Edward’s hands and he backed away.

“Oh- oh my God,” he breathed, stomach twisted every which way. “No, no, no, no…”

He felt a hand on his back. Victor. That’s right, he wasn’t alone. That was nice at least.

“Finish, Edward. Finish,” Victor insisted, keeping him from backing up any farther.

“No,” Edward said, shaking his head. His eyes flicked from Victor to the body. “I- I’m sorry, I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Of course you can. You’re built to, you’ve proven that.”

The smell was all over Edward, all around him. He wouldn’t be able to get it off for weeks, he was sure. His stomach was tightening up, his throat working to contract involuntarily. Edward found himself compelled to lean forward, jaw opening up as he retched in an effort to vomit. He brought one hand over his stomach and another over his chest as he tried to expel something, anything up from his innards. Nothing came, there was nothing to be thrown up, but he felt wretched anyway. 

Victor’s hands rested on his back and front, steadying him as he spasmed. He couldn’t stop for a good couple minutes. Edward felt the blood drain from his face, his gastrointestinal system go haywire, his front muscles struggling to steady themselves through the fit. Even as it wound down, he felt lightheaded and dizzy, barely capable of standing without Victor supporting him.

“You don’t have to this time. He’ll die today, one way or another,” Victor said as he stilled. “His life is draining already, you know. You’ve done a good job.”

“I haven’t done any good, Victor,” he said, as though he wasn’t speaking to an assassin at all.

“But doesn’t it feel right?” 

It had felt right. Too right for Edward’s tastes. 

“A little,” he allowed.

“We’ll work on that,” Victor said, putting a gloved hand on Edward’s cheek and turning his head so their eyes met. “I’m confident in you.”

His words and the smile he gave was enough to ease Edward’s nerves, if only for a moment.

Victor released his hold on Edward and sauntered over to the plateau.

“Watch me, please,” he said.

Victor pulled a knife from his coat. It seemed old and was completely unpolished, but the blade itself was wicked sharp.

“You’ve made a mess already. That’s good now. But if you want to kill fast and easy with a knife, this is how you do it.”

He pushed the knife into the man’s neck and sliced through it with a practiced sweep of his hand, severing his arteries and windpipe in one smooth movement. The cut went so deep that Edward feared briefly that his head might just come off. One more breath pushed its way into his lungs before all motion stopped. The heartbeat stopped. He was dead just like that. So easily.

“Remember that,” Victor said, pulling up one sleeve to unveil his growing collection of scars. He took the same knife he’d used for the kill and made a deep mark in his skin, letting out a contented sigh as he did so.

“Enough for one day,” he continued, heading towards the stairs up.

“Why do you do that?” Edward asked, turning to follow him. The question hadn’t had much thought put into it. Just a spur of the moment inkling about an element of Victor that they hadn’t talked about.

“Do what?” Victor asked, stopping in his tracks.

“Make those scars.”

Victor gave him a look as though he’d asked why birds fly. Like it was profound, yet obvious. It filled Edward with inexplicable annoyance.

“So I can’t forget,” he answered.

“Forget what?”

“My kills. My targets.”

“You don’t forget them?”

“Never. The Earth takes the flesh, I take the life,” Victor said, as though he’d told himself the same in the mirror before. “The marks pay respect to them and their memory, and to the strength of my nature.”

“What is that even supposed to mean your “nature”?” Edward spat the word out like dirt. “If everyone lived by their nature, we’d still be hunter-gatherers.”

He hadn’t meant to make his words to be so biting, but stress was filling his head once again.

It was a stare that mixed annoyance, offense, upset, and a bit of disappointment all into one.

“I’m not forcing you to do this,” Victor said. “Never doubt the power of your base instincts. Most people aren’t born with the mindset to kill. You were.”

“That doesn’t make it a good thing!” Edward cried.

“You are strong, Edward. Stronger than most. Don’t you understand?” Victor stepped towards Edward, looming over him. “And you’re as smart as any assassin. Train away your doubt and you have power.”

“I’m not- I’m not fit to have-”

Victor came forward and cupped Edward’s face.

“I believe in you,” he breathed. “I see your killer instinct struggling to wriggle out of that shell of worry you keep it in. Let it out. You’ll be happier for it.”

Edward tore away from his grasp and hurried for the stairs.

“It’s too stuffy in here, I need some air,” he insisted as he went without looking back.

The building Victor had seemingly made his base in was less a home and more an unusually well-kept foreclosed gun store. He doubted Victor even spent much time there beyond doing reprehensible things to people, if the dust laying all over the place was any indication. At least there was more dry oxygen on the main floor. Edward already felt cooler being out of the basement. He steadied himself against an old counter top, taking in deep breaths.

He heard heavy steps approaching from below. Edward didn’t bother to turn around. Victor let him know exactly where he was with deep exhales and inhales. Like he expected Edward to pounce on him if he sneaked up from behind. Maybe it was - or would be - a reasonable bit of discretion.

Victor came closer and closer and until Edward could feel those soft breaths stirring in his hair. He expected to be spoken to, but he didn’t expect strong arms to wrap around his belly and pull him into an embrace. Nor did he expect nuzzling against the back of his head, the feeling or Victor taking in his scent.

“It gives me chills, watching you work,” he murmured against Edward’s scalp. “You use your gift beautifully.”

Edward allowed himself to smile at the praise. He put his hands over Victor’s, leaning back into him. Victor always said such nice things. Always said exactly what he meant. He was guileless, so completely sincere and free of social dishonesty. He’d never imagined an assassin being capable of such sweetness.

Victor held him there for a few moments before letting go and stepping to his side.

“I’ll see you home,” he said, nodding.

“I can walk back on my own,” Edward assured him. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“That’s a bad idea around here. I’m going to shadow you until it’s safe.”

From his tone, Victor was not going to be taking no for an answer.

“If you’re so sure,” he conceded.

Edward led the way out, but a thought occurred to him as he went over the entire occasion. Just a small question.

“Are you happy?” he asked as they stepped outside.

Victor blinked at him and gave a smile, like the question had given him an uncharacteristic burst of delight. It took a minute before he answered. 

“There’s nothing like knowing what you’re meant to do, Edward. No greater power.”

After giving Edward’s right hand a brief squeeze, he crossed the street and disappeared down an alleyway. Edward couldn’t see Victor, but he had no doubt that Victor would see him, would feel Edward’s presence from the cover of darkness. Sense his electromagnetic pulse like a shark in the water. Edward was comfortable with that idea. He started down the sidewalk with an ease he rarely felt, thoughts of the body he’d left in the basement rapidly evaporating from his head. It was a lovely state of mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a little wishy-washy with what animal best represents Victor and I've settled on the shark. He's got the eyes for it, the killing machine aspect, the subtle nuance.
> 
> I like the idea of Edward seeking a mentor, but my head tells me that Victor would make a much better death mentor than Oswald, much earlier on. That probably creates a lot of problems I haven't thought about yet, but I started on the idea months ago and I'm not giving up on it now. 
> 
> Oh, and on that thought, the Gotham writers totally stole my idea for Edward finding a death mentor and cut Victor out of the equation. It doesn't matter if I didn't have it written down at the time, they did, that was my idea first, even if mine is considerably less polished. But enough unfounded personal griping.
> 
> Comments, critiques, and general thoughts are always welcome.


End file.
